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He walks across the room, toward me, and my heart is pounding so loud I can feel the thud between my ears. I shouldn’t want his touch. He rejected me. Threw me away. Told me we can never be together. The only reason why I’m here, in his house, in his room, in his bed, is because he feels guilty. Like he owes me something.
But he doesn’t owe me anything. And me? I owe him everything after all he’s done to protect me. I’d never keep him from his child, but he deserves someone better than me.
Carter gently picks up my hand like I’m a delicate porcelain doll he’s afraid of breaking and brings the back of my wrist to his hot mouth. His full lips touch the sensitive flesh of my body, and I burn for him hotter than I did before. He’s not even kissing me. I’m still sitting on the bed, him standing above me. We’re in a trance, our pupils zeroing in on one another. I don’t want this moment to end. It is so rare and true. And, knowing Carter, there’s not going to be another chance to be like this anytime soon.
When he finally releases my hand, I almost cry out in protest.
“The omelet is burning,” he notes dryly, turning away and leaving the room. I hear him in the kitchen, throwing away the omelet, cursing a little in his Irish slang that I don’t understand, and opening the windows around the house. The chill crawls into the room immediately, and I welcome it. When Carter comes back, he picks me up like I’m a toddler and carries me to the bathroom.
“I can hold your hair,” he says out of nowhere as he pushes the very last door down his hallway open and we both walk in. His shower is sparse, clean, and pristine white. His toilet—the same. This man does not take his cleaning tasks lightly around the house.
Ugh. As if I didn’t already think he was perfect enough.
“You want to hold my hair?” I question, my brows furrowing. The bile bubbling up my throat is killing me. The need to throw up intense. I wish he’d go away somewhere else so I can do this quietly. I start rolling my hair, ready to tie it into a messy, high bun, as I watch Carter intently. He shrugs.
“I read somewhere that this is what, uh.” He clears his throat and looks straight ahead, behind my shoulder, at nothing in particular. God, he is embarrassed. “That’s what good boyfriends do.”
“You did?” I can’t help but unleash a little grin. The morning sickness is still in full force, but I can’t seem to let this one go. Worst-case scenario, I’ll throw up on his shoes. I suspect there’s nothing I can do at this point that will deter him from helping me while I carry his child. “Where have you read that, Carter?” I question playfully.
He now looks visibly annoyed. His white skin flushes red, and he is rubbing the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at me.
“I read it on the internet.”
“Where on the internet? The internet is a pretty big place,” I fire back. He bites his lower lip and releases it slowly, and my womb clenches, hungry for his tongue to try to battle its way into it. Carter gives the best oral sex in the world, and I suspect he doesn’t even know it.
“Cosmopolitan,” he finally mutters, rolling his eyes like it is a struggle to admit it out loud. I burst out laughing, cupping my mouth with my hand, but as soon as I dip my head back to let the laughter out, something else rises with it.
My last meal.
I twist around, my eyes wild, and crouch down to the toilet as I empty my stomach. It is not pretty. The thing about morning sickness is, that unlike any other time, throwing up doesn’t actually make you feel better. Not even an ounce better. In fact, even though your stomach is empty, growling, and your throat is burning with all the puking you did, the nausea is still there.
“I can’t.” I place my head over the toilet seat—a real classy move, I know—and shake my head from side to side. “This pregnancy is kicking my ass, and it’s just the beginning.”
“I bought you ginger drops. I hear they’re good for nausea.” He leans his narrow waist against the sink, and his groin is pointed directly at me. Funny, I feel terrible, but I still wouldn’t say no to a ride on the Carter Express.
“Oh, yeah? Where did you read that? Martha Stewart’s magazine?” I giggle. He frowns, and I immediately regret ever saying that. He was trying to be caring and sweet.
“I reckon it’s a good time to make some scrambled eggs. The whole bloody carton, to be exact,” he retorts, his face blazing with the kind of childish seriousness that makes you chuckle. So I do. I chuckle. Because I love us like this. Sharing this journey. This fucked-up, sudden, unexpected, exciting, scary path to God knows where. I just wish it were under different circumstances. We shouldn’t be having this baby, and I think that on some level, we both know that.
Carter is both too old and too young to have a child. Parts of him are as innocent as a person can get—almost childlike—and parts of him have seen darkness that no light can soften. And me…I’m a mess. I’m a huge, fucked-up ball of emotional scars and battle wounds. We are chaotic and messy and not at all pretty…but this is us. This is ours. It’s the best thing that’s ever been mine, flaws and all.
We stare at each other silently, our smiles fading. He eases himself onto the sink, and I twist my head and throw up again. When I feel like the nausea is under control, we go to the kitchen. He makes me black tea, that would threaten to make me puke even if I wasn’t suffering from morning sickness, and serves me some crackers.
He sits across from me, staring at his bowl of oatmeal and blueberries. The thing I appreciate about Graham’s men is that they aren’t sloppy. They’re all Carter’s style. They dress sharp, eat well, train hard, and live by the Savage code. These men are formidable, terrifying, and unstoppable. And it is all due to the mental and physical training they endure. I knew Carter would never start the day with pancakes and hot chocolate.
“So…when are you going to work?” I ask, picking up one of my crackers and breaking it into small pieces. I don’t ask if he goes to work. I don’t want him to think I’m assuming he’ll spend the day with me. But, Carter shrugs from across the table.
“I told Graham I’m taking the day so we can discuss our plans for the…baby…and maybe find you a doctor or something. We can go shopping for the wee one. I’m not sure about how this works. How long before do we need to take care of that?”
This time, I work hard on not bursting out and laughing. I don’t actually find his lack of knowledge about the situation amusing. It’s the fact that he tries so hard that makes me want to kiss the hell out of him. But I’m not even sure where we stand. He’s making it really hard to stand my ground. So, I just bite my lip to suppress my giant smile and say, “Well, there’s still time before the shopping.” I pause, choosing my next words carefully. “Thank you, Carter. For being here. For not making this harder for me. To be honest, I was afraid you’d ask me to…terminate the pregnancy.”
He is now frowning, confusion and anger coloring every curve of his perfect face. “Why would I ask you to do such a thing?”
“Well,” I start, looking everywhere but at him, doing my best to avoid eye contact. This was my fear from the minute I found out. “I didn’t think you would want to bring a baby into your lifestyle.”
“I don’t,” he agrees. “But what’s done is done, and I promise to make the best pa I can be. My best might not be much. Honestly, with my gene pool and my general knowledge about parenthood, I reckon I’m gonna be shite, but I will give it one thousand percent. And I will hug him or her. A lot. Every day. Several times a day.”
“Why is that?” That traitorous grin creeps onto my face again, and this time, I don’t make an effort to bite it down.
